J and I are not large people. One would think that the two of us plus a 9 month old baby on a queen size bed would provide more than enough space for each individual to sleep comfortably and even wantonly stretch our legs. One would be wrong. Each night finds the child sleeping on more and more of the bed space while J and I cling precariously to the edge of the mattress, hoping to get a couple of seconds of sleep before we fall to the floor.
Since I have cats, I'm actually familiar with the fluidity of the laws of physics when it comes to small bodies being able to take up disproportionate space on beds. (This is, of course, one of Newton's lesser known laws: Bodies at rest tend to take up bed space on an inversely proportional relationship to their size.)
I believe this problem is yet another instance of grandparent revenge. There is an infamous story of my mother and me sharing a bed in a hotel in Niagara Falls when I was about 3. I managed to toss and turn to the point that I was turned the wrong way in the bed. After having kept my mother up all night with my motion-filled sleep shenanigans, it should come as no surprise that Mom tried to answer my foot when the wake-up call came at 0Dark:00 the next morning. My foot was vaguely phone shaped. My mother was tired. There was no reason why a foot should have been so close to her face in the first place. In context, it makes some sort of sense.
Last night, LO's normal sleep gymnastics were made worse by the fact that I had some caffeine that afternoon. Wendy's now seems to think a medium Coke should be the same size as a drum of oil. (Although no one held the straw in my mouth and forced me to finish the drink.) Even though I had my cask of caffeine at 1:00 in the afternoon, I was still feeling the effects at 10:30 that night while LO snoozed sweetly beside me and tried to push me off the bed.
After nearly an hour of fending off my son's attempts to get me to cede the bed to him (all the while aware of the sneering of the cat who seemed to be saying "And you thought I was bad? Why don't you make him sleep in the hall and let me sleep on your head again?"), I finally found a comfortable spot halfway down the mattress from LO, my arms on either side of the child, my face within inches of his feet, and my feet tucked neatly beneath me.
I suspect you know what happened next.
Just as I was drifting off to the gentle sounds of my husband's nightly impression of an asthmatic bear after nasal surgery, LO decided that he hadn't forced me to give up enough of the bed. He kicked me full in the face.
Luckily, baby feet are just as sweet and soft as advertised, so the damage was minimal. Except that it took me another hour to fall asleep again.
Which is why I'm thinking about heading to Wendy's for another tanker of Coca-Cola. I need to start this entire process all over again. Otherwise, how will I be prepared for my night of sleeping on a single square inch of mattress?